The Deconstruction of William Murderface
by QueensJenn
Summary: On the eve of his fortieth birthday, Murderface goes searching for a few answers.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Deconstruction of William Murderface

Author: Semenkhare

Rating: PG-13, may possibly go up.

Warnings: Nothing worse than what's on the show

Summary: On the eve of his 40th birthday, Murderface seeks answers.

Author's Notes: Can take place pretty much anywhere in the timeline of the show, I should think.

_He always knew he was having The Dream because it began with music. Not the dark, brutal, discordant stuff he had spent the last ten years of his life on, but a simple melody, sweet and light. A woman's voice, humming. He'd never known anyone who could hum like that._

_There were never any faces in The Dream, nor any sort of visual stimuli at all, really. Sometimes shadowy figures would flit in and out of his field of vision, and he would reach out to them, as though if he could only touch them, grasp them, he could pull them closer and make it all make sense. Nothing made sense in The Dream, however._

_Even though he had no concrete characters or storyline at all, he always knew when The Dream changed, because the singing stopped. Now The Dragon entered, and the Singer became the Screamer, her terrified shrieks mingling with the Dragon's metallic roars until it became all one cacophony of agony, too horrifying to bear -_

- Murderface jerked awake, the rawness in his throat and the lingering echoes in his cavernous bedroom telling him that he'd been screaming again. Shaking, he sat up and pushed the covers back, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He ran his hand through his hair, grimacing as he felt the sweat in his tight, frizzy curls.

No matter how many times it happened, and it had happened many times – it seemed that he had been having The Dream for as long as he could remember – it never failed to leave him a complete and utter fucking _mess_.

"That was fucked up."

Hearing his own voice in the silence of his room brought home just how alone he was. He got up (since he knew he wouldn't be sleeping any more that night) and stood, clenching and unclenching his hands, restless, uneasy, and with no idea how to make the residual screaming in his head go away.

He spied the stereo built into the wall. Music. Loud enough to wake the dead – or at least drown them out.

_Many years ago today something grew inside of your mother..._

_That thing was YOU!_

Oh fuck. Not this song. Not now.

_Did she scream? Did she cry? -_

"I DON'T KNOW!" Murderface howled, pitching the remote as hard as he could across the room, where it struck the stereo, smashing the faceplate. The sudden silence was deafening.

"I don't know," he repeated, staring at the broken stereo as if in a trance. Had she screamed? Had she cried? Had she wanted him? Or was he to her as he was to everyone else – a piece of barely-tolerated trash. His grandmother had never told him anything about his mother, and his father's name was akin to a curse word, growing up. Asking about either of them had earned him a particularly vicious smack from the spoon.

Once or twice, he'd tried to find out something without going through Grandma Stella. But that had been nearly thirty years ago, long before the Internet, and even at a young age he had a reputation. Upon seeing William Murderface enter the library, the librarians had no choice but to assume he was up to no good, and asked him to leave at once.

Sliding down to sit on the cold floor beside his bed, Murderface glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall. This time, though, it wasn't the engorged tits of the half-naked model that caught his eye. It was the circled date in three weeks' time.

His birthday.

Not just that, his _fortieth_ birthday. Where the fuck had the time gone?

Thirty years older, several billion dollars richer, but he wasn't really that different from the dirty, gap-toothed kid that'd been turned away from the library and punished when he'd tried to find out where he came from. He hadn't had the resources then, to do anything about it.

Now he did.

Now he did...

"Fuck it," he snarled to himself, pulling on his signature shorts, Tshirt and vest. "Fuck me. Schit."

William Murderface would not turn forty before finding out a few truths.


	2. Chapter 2

The Deconstruction of William Murderface

Chapter 2.

The Dethcopter rumbled its way high across the southern US landscape, but William didn't see the scenery passing far below, too lost in his own thoughts. He hadn't been back to Grandma Stella's house since he'd left, vowing never to return. For almost twenty-five years he'd managed to keep to that promise, but he felt drawn back, as though the ramshackle house would give him the answers he needed.

He was surprised at how quickly and unquestioningly Offdensen had signed off on the trip; almost as if he'd expected it for some time now. He hadn't encountered anyone in the halls on the way to the landing pad; not even a Klokateer. No one, except for Nathan. The front man didn't say anything, as William feared he might; didn't call him a big gay baby, or worse. He just clapped him on the shoulder in wordless understanding.

William didn't know what to make of that.

The Dethcoptor set down on a grassy field not far from the house, and for a minute, William was almost tempted to call the whole thing off. It wasn't too late. The pilot would unquestioningly obey him; they could just turn around and be back at Mordhaus within a few hours, and he could forget he'd ever come.

But almost as soon as that thought came, it passed. He felt like he'd been running all his life. Away from the house, away from his family; hell he'd even felt like running away from Dethklok at times. It was the reason he'd never been in a permanent band prior to Dethklok, preferring to work as a freelance bassist for hire. As soon as anything got too unpleasant or difficult, he could just leave. It was too easy to just turn his back and start fresh somewhere else, knowing that eventually he'd run from that too. It was time to man up and face whatever was coming.

He hadn't told Grandma Stella he was coming, but as soon as he stepped out of the Dethcoptor, there she was in the door, sitting on her scooter, her ever present spoon in hand.

"William!" she crowed. "I didn't know you were coming to see me!"

"Err...hi, Grandma," he said falteringly. It's not too late. It's not too late. But it was too late. A Klokateer deposited his bag on the ground beside him, then retreated up the ramp, rather quickly, it seemed to William. Evidently he didn't want to be around Grandma Stella either. Then the ramp lifted and the great rotors began to turn, and the Dethcoptor lifted, taking with it his last chance for freedom.

"Well don't just stand there, come in!"

Tentatively, William entered the house. It looked exactly the same as he remembered it: Same ugly wallpaper, same faded drapes around the windows. Crooked cabinets that never seemed to close right. A yellow refrigerator that hummed and clanked so loudly, it sounded like it was on its last legs (nevermind the fact that it had been on its last legs for the last thirty years.) And a delicious smell that permeated the entire kitchen, making his mouth water involuntarily.

Yes, if there was one thing Grandma Stella could do well, it was cook.

"You're just in time for supper," she said as he squeezed past her scooter. "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have made your favourite."

"It'sch...it'sch okay," he said, all the while hoping that she hadn't decided to make sausages for dinner. He didn't think he could deal with that on top of everything else.

He was in luck. She set a heaping plate of lasagna down in front of him, and he couldn't help but dig in. He kept his eyes down as she parked her scooter across from him and began on her own portion. He couldn't take the risk of pissing her off. However repugnant she may be, she was also the last living link to his parents. Even if the likelihood of getting any information out of her was microscopic.

"Now tell me...what made you come back after all these years?"

Oh, shit. What to tell her? He hadn't thought that far ahead. He couldn't tell her his real reason; he knew he'd have to approach it more carefully than just blurting it out in the middle of dinner. What to say, what to say?

"Oh, you know," he laughed almost desperately, hoping she wouldn't see right through his lie. "Juscht...visiting...Hey, are those new drapesch? They look like new drapesch."

Fortunately, it didn't take much to distract Grandma Stella when she was in a good mood. She immediately started off on a tangent about the drapes, which turned into a long, boring story that started out about her friend's experience with the drapery store and then meandered into said friend's gallbladder surgery. William tuned her out.

"Well, anywaysch!" He broke in, when he could finally get a word in edgewise. "I'm pretty tired. I'm going to bed." He got up and, ignoring her sounds of indignant disbelief, made his way to the back of the house.

With a deep breath, he opened the door to his childhood bedroom. Nothing had changed here, either. Same posters on the wall (even the Playboy pinups that he knew his grandma hated). A few issues of Bass Player magazine. Even the hidden stash of porno under the mattress was untouched. A rush of memories flooded his mind and he struggled to repress them. To some, being in their childhood room would be a comfort; a way to remember happier times. Not for him. The only memories he had of this place were crushing loneliness and depression and the feeling that someing..._everything_ was his fault. At least then, he'd had his bass to keep his mind off things. Now he didn't have that.

He was starting to understand why Skwisgaar brought his guitar everywhere.

The cheap bed creaked and groaned as William lay down on it, reminding him that he was at the very least 50 pounds heavier than the last time he'd layed there. The lumpy mattress's springs poked him in the back. He closed his eyes and tried to force himself to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

Tomorrow, he would start his investigation into the lives - and deaths - of his parents.


End file.
